Many of Horror
by meowsaysthetardis
Summary: Clara Oswald is a reporter for the Times. In a startling bit of circumstance, she meets Doctor John Smith; a wealthy man whose wife is on trial for murdering two people in the past month. Deciding to do an article on the man, Clara begins to uncover more things than she wishes to. What happens when a murderer finds a new victim?
1. John Smith

Year: 1950 Place: Westminster, London, Great Britain

Whenever people thought of doctors they thought immediately of a man located in Westminster by the name of John Smith. He was the best of the best, starting in the 1940s and on down to the present time of 1952. Each surgery he had ever performed, each symptom he had diagnosed, well nothing ever went wrong. That was because John Smith did not allow mistakes. He possibly was better than God when it came to healing and taking care of others. God used magic, altered physics, and hardly ever saved anyone. John used science, medicine, and practicality to save everyone. If anyone were a self-proclaimed God it was John and no one ever disagreed with him. Even the superbly religious believed he was some sort of gift, some sort of _miracle_. That was why he had all of the money he did, why he had so many people who believed in him, because he was just that good. There were people, of course, that thought John was actually worse than he seemed. His surgeries were fakes, his diagnoses were just placed on perfectly healthy people who he paid behind the counter. It was true though, all of it, because no one was perfect, especially not John Smith. Not with the things he did in his spare time.

Many people, when asked about John Smith, would proclaim that he was lucky to have such a posh lifestyle, and they often spoke highly of his wife, Melody. The woman had money, being the daughter of a very wealthy man who had it all from inheritance. Yes, John had married well, but not out of love. That was such a silly thing to him as the emotion of love was one he had never known. As a child his mother was everything less than kind and his father, well if John was God, his father was the devil. No, his parents didn't matter now. For he had a wife who loved _him _dearly. He had a job. And best of all his tendencies were never put under suspect. That was until he was sloppy.

As stated, John's father was not a good man. This was because of the simple fact that he had an anger problem, a large one that would have taken a genius to fix. It was said to be cause of a mental disorder after he was found out, and John knew it to be true; because he felt the same way. All of the time he was so angry, even whenever he was smug he felt anger. And at times his anger would peak. So high, in fact, that he killed. Oh, as a doctor he could get away with that sort of thing. He knew how to conceal bodies, he knew what coroners looked at. The killing left him numb, let him hardly remember, let him feel a fake sense of power. In his mind he was most certainly God if he could take a life just as easily as he could prolong one. So a string continued, a string of murders that always got blamed on some homeless bloke. **Never** on Doctor John Smith.

Though the one time he did mess up, it wasn't he who was blamed, but his wife. He had made sure, still, that he wouldn't be caught. At a dinner party in his home he had gotten terribly angered at a couple of their guests. The house that he resided in was large, a mansion really. They had maids, chefs, it was a very important house. And the most important room, to John, was his library. Such a room it was, ornate in everything from architecture to book bindings. He had led the couple there and taken care of them. But he didn't go unnoticed by his wife who started screaming and so he had to use her love against her and her drunkenness. Told her it was her fault, that she had done all of the this and the reason he was covered in blood was because he was trying to save the couple from what she had done.

_**"They were your friends, Mel! How could you?"**_He had said to her. Oh and she was an idiot who believed every word. She didn't think John could lie. And she had taken the blame so well. John knew that she felt guilt about it as soon as she wasn't drunk. Some people may have felt bad about this, but not John. In fact it just made her more believable as the murderer. Whatever John said, people would believe too. So he had acted very upset and disappointed with his wife. In the public eye he was the perfect husband and he had loved her so much. He had even been able to fake tears. The only thing he would miss about Melody was having his own personal bitch around.

Though John didn't expect all of the press to stay away from him, he also didn't expect it to get so close. It had been exactly three days after his wife got put in custody that a woman contacted him in need of an interview. He had nothing to hide, but he also didn't want to be interviewed. Oh well, he took the interview anyways and decided it was a good idea. If he could fool his wife so easily, he could fool a journalist. He invited her to tea in the very house that the murders had all taken place. And she could search and search how she wanted, but she would find nothing. He even took the very courtesy of making sure that her favourite tea was prepared for when she was to come.

For now, he sat in the study, looking at the large ebony clock that ticked loudly. His own hands were clasping a sherry, a drink that was of the utmost importance to him. Each time he had killed he had put the scent on the people as a symbolism. That they were nothing but what drunks were; pigs. Almost all people were that to him. The clock still read that it was 10:00 and they were to meet just at 10:13. John didn't like regular meeting times, and so he had chosen that specifically. Normal wasn't his forte. So he sat and waited, the tolling of the clock lulling him as he sipped at sherry and thought about how very close he was to getting away with an eleventh and twelfth murder.

** {And he would stop at nothing to make sure he went free.}**


	2. Clara Oswald

**A/N: Thank you for all of the kind reviews. Sorry this took so long to update, life got in the way.**

* * *

Giles I. was no one important unless you read the Times. If you did, you knew for fact who the famous "G.I." was. People were calling him the Great Intelligence, the one who knew everything and uncovered mysteries. The anonymous man was just that; unknown. Giles was secret, and people understood his wishes of being so. It was very hard to be an investigator in this time period. People would come after you with guns or knives or even their bare hands if you had dug up with Giles I. had dug up in his three years with the Times. People wanted to know who he was, though, everyone did. The police force wanted to hire him as a detective and a lot of people actually believed he worked there already. If so he would have had access to all of the files there. However, exhaustive research only swayed people further from thinking he was a detective any longer. Perhaps he had been at one point in time, but now Giles was literally no one; just a fake name for a man who was too scared to come out. Even local gossip magazines were putting him on man hunt. And it was exactly that, a _man_ hunt. Obviously, Giles had to be a male, as what else could he be other than just that? Men got everything right in this society and females were nothing.

And so, his stories were famous, especially the one where he had uncovered a secret under the counter drug causing mass pill popping. It had been addictive and it told women they could become skinnier when realistically they just gained an extra couple pounds and ended up getting very sick. Many women had died from the pill and it had all been said of food poisoning. Giles had uncovered everything so well and yet no one saw him coming. There was no address for any Giles I. in the city of London. People searched and searched, but the only thing that ever signified Giles ever existed were the envelopes that appeared on the desk of the Times' editor. They were all large and white and had the initials G.I written in calligraphy form. Each time the editor got a new scoop from Giles you could tell. His face lit up like a child's did on Christmas morn. The stories got the Times the best view rate. And he was very proud as were all of the other workers who got themselves a nice big paycheck.

Though it could always be told that one of the women who worked at the office were not nearly as infatuated with this Giles fellow. Yes, everyone wanted to marry Giles, wanted to meet him and get his signature in that calligraphy of his and hang it up somewhere in their perfect suburb homes, but not the woman. Often times she could be found, hardly caring what was in the envelopes and continuing to work on her little article for the lifestyles column that she was head of. Because she simply liked to watch as others enjoyed _her _work.

Clara Oswald was indeed Giles I. and no one would ever suspect it.

People only took one glance at Clara Oswald whenever they walked into the office. No one said hello to her, no one asked how her writing was going, and most importantly no one cared. She was unbelievably thorough in her writings and oh yes, she knew the next story she would be having right away. In fact, she was working on a lifestyles article about it, beginning to link herself and Giles together. It was a stupid idea, however the story of the Smiths was something that a girl from Lancashire dreamed of getting her hands on, especially a girl like Clara.

At the ripe age of ten, Clara had started writing. It was still looked down upon for girls to do such a thing, but her father and mother had both supported her fully. They were nice, middle working class people who only wanted their little girl to dream. And so she did, she dreamed so very hard that one day she would be someone who figured out things that helped people. It wasn't until the mysterious death of her mother that Clara actually knew what she wanted to do.

That was the worst day of her life, and she always repeated it in her mind. It was October 2nd, 1948. Clara had just turned twenty and was in college for journalism. The call had come for her later that night and she was quickly packing to go back home, leaving behind her college education to stay with her father. Women didn't really need jobs, he had told her. And so she had settled into that life. Taking the place of her mother and even though she very much disliked it, she allowed that to take her over. Though all the time she tried to "settle" she felt like her mother hadn't really died because of natural causes. Something had to have happened, some sort of foreplay. It was all very important to her that she found out and so she tried to, though in the end she uncovered that pill scandal instead. That was when she had come up with the penname of Giles, and when she taught herself how to begin to investigate. It was during this time that she was also hired to the Times. Being hired there was her dream job and her father, though reluctant to give up his sort of housekeeper, allowed her to go and pursue her dreams. Though her dreams were dangerous and there was always a fear of being caught. That was also what kept her writing all of these stories, helping the police along, the bit of fear of getting caught, everything perfectly aligning.

Now she planned on helping the police in a new way. With the story of the Smiths on the rise, Clara found she had a new case on her hands. A man by the name of John Smith had just recently found out his very own wife was a murderer and the topic had interested her to the point that the mixing of Clara and Giles didn't seem like such a bad idea. First, she came up with the article that she would write and had set up an interview as any good reporter should do. Little did anyone know that Clara would also be acting as Giles; judging every little tiny thing about John Smith as though he were an article that needed editing. Yes, if anyone were to get to the bottom of how such a kind woman as Melody Smith were to be accused of murder, it would be Clara Oswald.

The hardest part of going to an interview as herself was that she had to act like a lady. She dressed the part as she always did, a nice dress that was the pale colour of bubblegum, a long coat that was black and shielded her from the fall wind, then of course a hat that was kept over her well put together hair and white gloves that covered her small hands which clasped at a small purse that contained a tape recorder, a small notepad, and a pencil. They had agreed to meet at 10:13. Whenever Clara was making the appointment with him he had insisted and she couldn't help but oblige. It wasn't that she had suspected anything, perhaps it was easier to realise who was practical and who was not from the time selection. From what Clara knew of John, he was a man of a logical sense; a doctor who was a very good one and had helped many in the Westminster area. She had done all of the early research she could, gaining background always seemed like the route to go and at exactly 10:12:59, she rang the doorbell. Each little background piece staying right in mind, her judging scale turned on so she could see exactly who John was right from the beginning. And the gentleman that opened the door was not at all what she expected him to be.


End file.
